


I'll be here, cheering you on (even when it's freezing cold and I can't feel my fingers)

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: High school Boyfriends, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 04:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11177112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Adam's there to cheer the boys on when they play their dreaded rivals. Of course he is, that's why Jordan loves him.And when the tennis season starts, he repays the favor in kind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: "I always see you at my sporting events cheering really loudly and you don’t know this but the entire team loves you for it.”

It was fucking _freezing_. There weren’t many people in the stands, but then again Jordan hadn’t expected many to show up, really.  
  
But there was one lad, sat in the front row. He was bundled up, warm wool jacket and a hat, scarf in their school colors wrapped round his neck. His cheeks and nose were pink from the cold, and if Jordan was a gambling man, he’d have bet his ears would be too, under the knit hat that covered the effortlessly cool hair.  
  
He looked happy though, cheering and yelling on the sidelines, calling out good plays.  
  


But Adam had always been like that, from day one of the season, when the bleachers had been full of happy students, before exams stole some, and exhaustion and ennui took more.

 

And now there were just a few dedicated parents, cold-looking but loyal girlfriends, and friends going above and beyond the call of duty.

 

Just them and Adam, sat in the front row.

 

Jordan had waved at him during the warmup, grinning at his best mate for raising the mood on this day pulled straight from the Yeti’s wet dreams.

 

“God, I love that boy,” Studge says cheerily, throwing a warm arm around Jordan’s shoulders and waving at Adam with his gloved hand.

 

“Yeah, he’s brilliant,” Jordan agrees proudly, breath fogging in the air as he speaks.

 

They leave it at that, get in the huddle for the pre-match talk from their coach, Hendo’s reptile brain screaming that the huddle is _warm_ , that they should just cancel the game and stay huddled up. But of course they don’t, and the ref blows the whistle and they’re off.

 

It takes roughly five minutes for Jordan to stop feeling cold, but after that the fire in his veins keeps him warm, the familiar flames licking comfortably at his legs.

 

The other side, a top school from Manchester, is good, much as it pains Jordan to admit it. Their rivalry is historic, and if the day wasn’t utterly arctic, maybe they’d have gotten more of a crowd today, but as it is…

 

As it is, Jordan’s even more grateful for his best mate than he normally is.

 

But not for nothing is Jordan Henderson captain of his team, and not for nothing is his team the best in the upper northwest, if not the whole world.

 

They press high and tight against the opposition, and their defense stays solid and compact. Jordan and the rest of the midfield stay tight, don’t let any gaps open up, and their front three run like the hounds of hell are chasing them about the field.

 

(But no, this can’t be hell, at least it would be warm there.)

 

The first half is scoreless, which is frustrating, because the opposition have just parked the bus, and Jordan and the lads are _trying_ , at least. If there was an award for pretty football, they would’ve won, surely.

 

But looks aren’t everything in the game, unfortunately.

 

The coach isn’t as upset about it though, gives them all a rousing pep talk and believes in them so hard, maybe they actually _can_ pull this thing off. The optimism is catching, and Jordan shouts at the boys too, getting them pumped up, even though they’ve got to go back out into the cold, and that’s absolutely the last thing any of them wants at this point—Jordan’s just begun to feel his fingers again, after all, and they’re all in about the same state.

 

They warm up again as they go back outside, stretch their legs as well as they can before kickoff. Adam’s still there, drinking something steaming and warm from a travel mug and letting out an enthusiastic whoop as he sees the team coming back out.

 

“Let’s go Reds!” He shouts encouragingly. Jordan turns to smile at him in the moment before the whistle blows for the second half, and Adam gives him a bright smile and a little wink.

 

And then the whistle blows and there’s no more time to look at Adam, to be jealous of whatever he’s drinking, coffee or tea or hot cocoa, and think about how nicely it would sit in Jordan’s stomach and warm him from the inside out.

 

For all of their coach’s inspirational words, for all the cheering of the few, but loud fans in the stands, they still start slow. They work their way into the game, though, get better and better, muscle memory and the training pitch making it easy for no-look passes to find their targets and for the team to sync in a way that suggests scoring is more a matter of _when_ than one of _if._

 

The _when_ is in the seventy-fourth minute.

 

It’s Dejan to Hendo, playing out from the back, that rock solid formation serving them well.

 

Hendo to Milly, all those hours of watching football together paying off, all those hours of discussing plays and tactics and formations and styles.

 

Milly to Studge, past Phil who makes the perfect run to pull Studge’s marker off him…

 

And Daniel Sturridge, who at the moment seems a strong contender for the (platonic) love of Jordan’s life, catching the ball on his chest and controlling it with the first touch of his left foot, pulling his right leg back and shooting…

 

And the ball, cooperating for once, and landing with gorgeous laser precision in the top left corner of the net, just past the keeper’s outstretched fingers.

 

Adam’s the first one to react, the first one to scream.

 

“Well done, Studge! Dan-iel Sturr-idge! You blink, he sco-ores! Dan-iel Sturr-idge! You wish he were yo-ours! Dan-iel Sturr-idge!”

 

Studge on his part, jumps and pumps his fist straight at Adam, who jumps up and returns the gesture.

 

Jordan’s there a heartbeat later, wrapping his arms around Studge and telling him how brilliant he is, and little Phil is there too, telling his _irmão_  the same thing in rushed Portuguese.

 

Their coach is shouting too, with joy at first, and then telling them to go back out there and get another.

 

Phil and Studge share a grin tinged with something feral, and Jordan has a feeling that there’s a wordless agreement made that this isn’t going to be a one-nil game.

 

He’s right, as it turns out. The next one comes ten minutes later, when Studge gets cynically taken down some ten yards outside the box. Phil lines up the ball lovingly, looking seriously at the wall and the goal and his teammates. Milly’s standing there too, but nobody in their right mind thinks anybody but Phil’s going to be taking this free kick.

 

He does, lines it up, shoots and slots it into the corner, so gorgeous that Steven Gerrard, the school’s patron saint of free kick taking, must get goosebumps for a moment, whatever university he’s at now.

 

“Phi-ill! Phi-ill Coutinhoooo!!” Adam screams, “Magic in his feet, his goals are so sweet, our Phil! He’s a little Ronald-inhooooo, our little Phil Cout-inhoooo!”

 

Phil runs straight to Studge and leaps onto him, legs wrapping round his waist. And then Milly and Dejan are there too, and Jordan just half a second behind.

 

The other side lose their minds, desperate for anything, a goal, a booking, a card, an injury—it just doesn’t matter anymore.

 

The ref gives out yellow cards like candy, and when Fellaini takes out Phil in the box, and Phil _stays down_ , arm over his face and clutching his ankle, it’s the last straw.

 

Milly gets in his face, and it’s a hilarious mismatch, so Jordan does what any captain would do. He pulls his vice aside, squares up to Fellaini and tells him to “pick on someone your own size for once, _asshole_.”

 

“Kick his ass, Hendo! Kick his ass!” Adam screams from the stands, on his feet and outraged.

 

Studge pulls him away after a moment, before the ref hands him a card of his own.

 

“You’re a fucking disgrace, Fellaini!” Adam screams from the stands.

 

“Least someone said it,” Studge mutters to Jordan as they get ready for the penalty. Jordan grins.

 

Milly stands at the penalty spot, looking the keeper square in the eye. The referee sets the ball down, Milly bends to give it a little spin and nudge it infinitesimally to one side or another, and straightens up.

 

He takes a few steps back and to the left, ready for the run up. The ref blows the whistle, and Milly takes his run.

 

The keeper dives to the left, way too early.

 

Milly takes a little skip and dinks the ball to the right, to the opposition coach’s absolute fury.

 

“James Philip Milner! What a goddamn legend!” hollers Adam accordingly, not bothering with a song.

 

A mother covers her little girl’s ears and glares at him.

 

“Very sorry, Mrs. Can,” Adam apologizes sincerely, pulling a biscuit out of his bag and handing it to the little girl.

 

The final whistle blows after another four minutes. Jordan hugs all his teammates quickly, even Phil, who’s hobbled back out onto the pitch, and makes his way over to the stands, towards Adam who’s standing and waiting for him.

 

“You were brilliant!” Adam says brightly, hugging him. He’s warm, Adam is, with his jacket and his hat and his scarf. Jordan stays in the hug as long as he can.

 

“No, you were brilliant! We couldn’t have done it without you, mate, honestly, you were the real twelfth man today,” he returns with a laugh, throwing an arm around Adam and leading him down to the pitch.

 

After the team celebrates, he drives Adam home, and when they get close, they pull over and park the car.

 

“You really were brilliant today, Jordan,” Adam says quietly, leaning across the center console to press his mouth to Jordan’s, quickly, softly.

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, love,” Adam says, about to open the door. Jordan grabs his hand and pulls him back.

 

“Babe, please.” Adam’s smirking and he unbuckles his seatbelt, climbing over the gearshift and settling himself into Jordan’s lap.

 

“Careful—don’t need you pressing against the horn again. Nearly gave me a heart attack last time.”

 

“Move the seat back then.” Jordan wraps an arm around Adam to steady him and moves his seat back away from the horn, reclining it too, so Adam’s leaning over him.

 

“You were _brilliant_ today,” Adam repeats, pulling Jordan’s scarf off and kissing his throat. “You always look so good in your uniform, love. The shorts make your butt look _fantastic_.”

 

“You looked so warm today, I was so jealous,” Jordan whispers.

 

“Yeah? I could keep you warm too, Jord. My parents are going away this weekend. Business conference. I could keep you warm all weekend long, baby.”

 

“Want you now,” Jordan whines.

 

“We can’t. You know that. Besides, you turned the car off, it’ll get cold in here in about two minutes. I can’t have car sex unless it’s at least 16 degrees outside, and it’s not getting there for awhile yet.”

 

Jordan pouts, and Adam kisses him again, and with his boyfriend in his lap, Jordan doesn’t feel the cold at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March is way too cold to be playing tennis, Adam thinks. 
> 
> Luckily, Jordan and the boys are there to cheer him on. 
> 
> (They look enviably warm)

March is a bitch, Adam thinks bitterly, pulling on his warmup jacket over his team t-shirt and shivering in his shorts.

 

It’s way too cold to be playing tennis.

 

Adam’s a good player, one of the best kids his age in the country, actually, but it’s _tennis_ , for fuck’s sake. This is a football-mad school in Liverpool, not fucking _Eton_.

 

His mum and dad are working, his older sister’s at uni, and his younger one’s ill and he’d told her that she was to stay in bed, not come watch him in the frigid air.

 

And to top it all off, it was fucking windy, too, which not only made it cold as fuck, but also turned tennis from a game of skill to a sadistic plaything of the gods. He went out, shook his opponent’s hand, encouraged the other lads on the team, who all looked equally dejected, even Lucas and Alberto, who normally provided the team with sunshine.

 

They warm up, spin the racket to see who chooses. Adam wins the spin and decides to serve first. His opponent grins as if he’s just stepped into his trap, and gives him the side of the court so that he’s serving with the wind.

 

 _Fuck you, dude_ , Adam thinks sourly as he walks to the line, two balls in his pocket ( _ha, two balls more than he’s got, the gutless Manc_ , he thinks to himself, unable to escape his teenaged sense of humor) and one in his hand.

 

He takes a practice toss of the ball. He sighs and serves, just enough to ease the ball over the net—the wind will do all the rest.

 

The first serve goes long—the damn Manc was probably thinking about how brilliant he was.

 

Adam would show him.

 

The second serve goes in, and when he goes to return it, he doesn’t hit through it, and the wind slows it just enough to send it into the net.

 

Adam hides his smirk behind a closed fist, faking a cough.

 

He wins the game, conceding just one point. He puts his foot on a ball, rolling it back and pushing it down so it jumps perfectly onto the strings of his racket.

 

He meets his opponent at the halfway line before he hears the music.

 

When he turns to look—and maybe shout, can’t whoever it is see that they’re trying to play tennis here?—he sees the entire football team, bundled up with coats and scarves and travel mugs full of steamy drinks.

 

He listens to the song, but as the lyrics start, Jordan gets up in front of the boys and they all start singing.

 

_His name was Adam,_

_He was a player—_

 

They fade out for a bit, where they haven’t prepared enough lines—

 

_His name is Adam, Adam Lallana!_

 

They’re singing his name to the tune of fucking _Copacobana_.

 

Adam smiles fondly at them.

 

“You’re idiots,” he says quietly to them when his opponent bends to pick up his water bottle.

 

_Aces and winners were the fashion,_

_Forehands and backhands, were his passion,_

_His name is Adam, Adam Lallana!_

 

Even his opponent looks vaguely amused, if a bit surprised, in a _holy shit, this nerd has friends?_ kind of way.

 

Right at the ninety second mark, when the changeover is set to end, the music shuts off, and the boys fall silent, just as quiet as they are in maths, albeit a bit more awake.

 

His opponent holds his serve, as is only to be expected, but struggles to do so, and then Adam holds his easily, hitting harder against the wind to get the ball over the net.

 

Things are proceeding at about par, which is to say they both hold their serve, though Adam generally has less trouble with his.

 

Then the wind changes at 3-4, Adam with the four on the other boy’s serve. The wind slows, suddenly, and when the other lad hits through his serve, it goes out. And then wide. And then he pulls back, overcorrecting and sending it into the net.

 

All of a sudden, it’s 0-40 and Adam’s got a gift, and he’s got to take it. _Either of these next two points will do,_ he thinks desperately.

 

The other lad grits his teeth, determined not to double-fault on break point. He rolls the serve in, and Adam hits the return, and then the other lad hits a shot that’s shorter. Adam grins and sprints up to it, whipping his racket back as if to smash it…

 

And gently nudges it over the net, a drop shot loaded with such gorgeous backspin that it’d give Andy Murray a boner. It’s the sort of shot that wouldn’t have a chance in the wind, but did in this moment of stillness.

 

He knows he’s got it. He knows he does, and so does everyone else, including his opponent.

 

He still waits for the second bounce before he turns to the footballers and pumps his fist.

 

“Come on!” he screams at them. They scream back, various forms of encouragement and just incoherent yelling.

 

He serves out the set after that.

 

He takes a seat on the bench and sips some water, the lads cheering fading to a pleasant buzzing as he focuses on the game plan, talks to himself in his head like a coach would do.

 

The second set is 6-2, as routine as any Adam’s ever played.

 

The other lads on the team split their matches—third singles and first doubles won, and second singles and second doubles had lost.

 

Adam’s win takes it for them, and they shake the opposition’s hands and wait for them to pile into their bus and leave. Then his teammates hoist him up onto their shoulders and carry him over towards the footballers, singing his version of _Copacobana_ in full voice.

 

“Lads!” Adam says, laughing and delighted, “what’s all this then?”

 

“You’re our mate,” Jordan says easily, “you were there for us, you know.”

 

“And we’re not dicks,” Studge adds, rolling his eyes, “so of course we’re here for you, too.”

 

“Is much easier to watch and drink tea than play in such cold,” Phil says with a sage smile.

 

“Who came up with the song then?” he asks, sitting down amongst them, pulling on his warmup jacket and stealing Jordan’s travel mug as he starts to get cold.

 

“Milly. He’s the only one anywhere near smart enough,” Jordan admits, with a sheepish grin.

 

“You helped, to be fair,” Milly says kindly.

 

“It was brilliant. You’re all brilliant,” Adam says with a grin.

 

“We are pretty brilliant,” Studgey agrees.

 

“And humble,” Milly mutters.

 

Adam looks up at Jordan, who’s still flushing, a little embarrassed at having gone to so much trouble. “I love you, Jordan Henderson, you absolute idiot.”

 

He settles next to Jordan and drinks the hot chocolate inside his travel mug, passing it back to Jordan between sips.

 

The others leave pretty soon, because it’s too cold to stick around after Adam’s already won, and because it looks like the lovebirds are lost in their own world anyway, going by the way Jordan’s got a warm arm around Adam’s waist and Adam’s nearly sitting in his lap.

 

“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” Jordan says, kissing him and tasting the hot chocolate in his mouth.

 

Adam loves tennis.


End file.
